Not Broken, Just Bent
by Prosper-the-XVIII
Summary: SEX! Now that I have your attention...Scars series part six. A different kind of love is explored i this one; the love between mother and son. How well exactly does David cope with finding out about his mum? Find out here, from the day she leaves right through to...well, whenever I get fed up writing...


**Well, this is the sixth instalment of the 'Scars' series, and as 'so-and-so won't love me [any more]' has been done to death across _Tears Dry On Their Own, Only Time Will Heal_ and _Who Cares?_ I decided to go at it with a different kind of love; mother/son. In this case, the mother is MI6 agent Evelyn Bonham-Carter and the son twelve-year-old computer expert David. Or, to put it another way, M and Q. Could be a sort of prequel to 'Mum's the Word' as it follows the notion of M and Q being related in an incredibly close way. I apologize in advance if this is a tad anachronistic; I wasn't alive in the 80's. **

Evelyn couldn't help but cry a little bit on the inside as her twelve-year-old son, David, wormed his way into an embrace as she curled up sleepily on the sofa, an episode of _Casualty_ playing on the television which she wasn't paying a lot of attention to and a half-drank glass of wine on the coffee table. It was the night before her first assignment of the year and at that first in seven without her partner and mutual friend Tiago Rodriguez. It was risky – the objective to assassinate the leader of a French drugs cartel – and its dangers she had been warned of several times, and much to her annoyance at her own stupidity, she had taken it anyway. To say she wasn't looking forward to it was the understatement of the century.

"Mum?" He stared up at her with slatey green eyes that she couldn't deny were her husband, Matthew's, his naturally tousled black hair falling over the metal frames of his glasses. She could hear the pre-mission fear for her safety that played in his voice as he spoke. She was already guessing what he would say next, and knowing him she would be right. "You are going to be okay, right?"

All she could do was let herself flop forward and breathe in the musty scent of his hair, hugging him into her tightly and swallowing her own tears as she felt him sob silently into her chest. "Darling, I'll be fine; I always am. You need to stop dwelling on my career so much, you'll worry yourself sick!"

"Someone has to, seeing as Dad doesn't seem to give a toss at the moment-"

"He never has," Evelyn muttered just below David's range of hearing. Too right he hadn't been. As much as she loved him sometimes, it seemed that in Matthew's head, he had married a bank account, not a woman.

"Summer's too concerned with school, ditto June and all Hope does is hole up in her room with a notebook and chocolate," Evelyn couldn't help but laugh at this extraordinarily accurate description of her family. She wasn't willing to launch into another rant about her stay-at-home husband who's life revolved around late-night poker games and friends that she'd never met, and as for her daughters...Summer (the eldest at eighteen) lived in sports kit and was never found far away from a rugby ball or some kind of spy novel. Fifteen year old June on the other hand was an utter studyoholic. As for Hope...aged thirteen, she wrote, she ate, she slept, she went to school; that was about the extent of it. As he heard his mum laugh, David looked up, nasally chuckling himself a tad nervously, though his glasses were steamed up from his tears. "I'm going to miss you."

"I will too, David..." She looked up, glancing around the room and caressing his mussed-up ebony curls. Of her four children, David looked in all the least like her, with his father's black hair (the only aspect of Evelyn that David had inherited was the curls in his mad tresses) and jade-hued irises whereas all the girls had landed up with her blonde locks and azure steel-flecked eyes. "I'll be absolutely fine, you'll see."

This, she would later discover, was fatal last words on her part.

* * *

"Hello?... No, he's not in. Who's calling?... Okay... Okay... Yes, I am... I'm her daughter... Eighteen... Yes?... Were you listening? She's my mother... Oh... I see... I'll let him know as soon as I can... Is she okay?... Right, right, I know, stupid question... Of course... Would we be able to come down and see her?... 'We' is me, my younger brother and two younger sisters... I'm eighteen, for the last time!...He knows I'm alone with them, yes... Okay... Is she conscious?... Okay... Thank you... We'll be right there... Yes... Thank you... Bye," Summer put the phone down after a good ten minutes, her face slowly draining of colour and her hands trembling.

"What's happened to Mum?" David looked up slowly from his laptop, which had been resting on his knees, the pre-teen himself sprawled out on the sofa.

"You, sir, have exceptional hearing. One; stop eavesdropping. Two; how did you know it's Mum?"

"Credit me with a bit of brainpower, please. If I'm right in thinking, that was the hospital or MI6, one of the two. If it was MI6 then it's definitely Mum. If it was the hospital, it was about Mum as well because they were talking about 'she' and asking for Dad; they only make calls out to direct family. The only other family we have that are women are Granny – she lives in America – and Auntie Josephine – they would have asked after Mum not Dad because she's her sister, and if it were her... you hate her, so you wouldn't have gone white."

"Bloody _hell_!" Summer breathed, her eyes almost bursting out of her head with surprise. "You really are more intelligent than I'm willing to let myself think you are," she was a lot quieter now, and was putting shoes on whilst speaking. "Yes, it is about Mum, you're right. And she's not okay either. They weren't willing to go into much detail on the subject just then, but she apparently came round from a coma this morning; I've no idea why we haven't been told any sooner. She was hurt on a mission or something and she's been in intensive care for the past two weeks. We're going to see her right now."

At this, David sprung up, skidding along the parquet floor in his worn-out socks before slipping over and crashing into the door.

"Nicely done, Mr Bonham-Carter, very nicely done," Summer sighed, face-palming. "Seriously, calm down; we don't need more than one family member in hospital at the one time," Summer said this airily enough, but she was screaming on the inside, mentally killing herself for trying to make a joke out of this big an issue. Her voice raised now, and she stuck her head into the stairwell, shouting up the stairs, David behind her. "JUNE! HOPE! CAR! NOW!"

The reply was one shout of "I'M IN THE SHOWER!" from Hope, and the resulting clatter from June almost pitching headlong down the stairs, saving herself on the banister at the very last minute.

"Guys, seriously!" Summer stormed up the stairs now, June proceeding to attempt to stuff her feet into ballet flats that belonged to her mother and were therefore far too small; their mum Evelyn's 5'3" stature made her a fair bit smaller than just about everyone in the house, save for Charlie the pet goldfish. "Hope, you've got to be joking! Look, this is more bloody important, we are going now, get out now!"

* * *

"Can I help you?" It perhaps wasn't something that Anne Cambridge, the woman reminiscent of a Call the Midwife extra currently manning the reception desk at the Royal London Hospital was used to seeing – four kids ranging in ages about twelve to eighteen swinging through the doors in what seemed like a blind panic – but that perhaps wasn't an excuse for her to be as brash as she actually had been with them.

"I'm looking for Evelyn Bonham-Carter," the eldest of the lot of them said breathlessly, her hand gripping the blonde ponytail of a girl aged about thirteen as if she was worried that the teenager would bolt at any given moment. The receptionist looked over her half-moon glasses and scowled at the lot of them.

"Are you a direct relation of Ms Bonham-Carter?"

"Yes, we're all her children."

"Do you have a parent or guardian with you?"

"No, but I've called him and he'll be here as soon as he can, can we please-"

"Sorry, but unless you have a parent with you, I can't let you in to see your mum. Besides, it'll just upset you lot seeing her in the kind of state she's in, especially this poor mite," she attempted to ruffle David's hair, but he swatted her away irritatedly, grimacing in red-faced embarrassment.

"Piss off!" David let his fringe fall into his face, wishing that he wasn't there whilst he nursed his wounded pride and worried about his mum. He really hoped that, at some stage, he would grow out of looking far younger than he actually was, because it was literally the most annoying thing about his life at the moment – save from the dickheads in his class at school who had decided to make his life a misery because he was 'probably gay'.

"Look, that kind of language will not be tolerated; any more pushy or cheeky behaviour and the lot of you are going to be put out, do you hear me? Now, I'm sorry, but I can't let you in without a parent or adult-"

"Aha!" Summer smiled triumphantly, though she was chalky white and sweating out of worry. "I came of age seven months ago; I'm eighteen years old, that makes me legally an adult."

The receptionist groaned, face-palming. "Proof of ID?" Summer cockily produced her driver's licence, smiling as if she had personally thwarted Anne, as opposed to an accidentally unmentioned hospital policy having done that for her. "Fine. She's in fourth floor, west wing intensive care room nine, okay?"

* * *

David stared at the floor, attempting to avoid ending up totally lost as Summer didn't seem to have a hope in hell when it came to working out where they were or where they were going. According to his older sister, the four of them were meant to be following the green taped lines on the floor, though they had passed through Maternity, Paediatrics and what seemed to be a disabled toilet about twice now.

"Did she not say fourth floor?" June said inquisitively, staring at the LED floor number above the lift.  
"I think she might have," Summer stood attempting to make head or tail of the floor map on the wall. "Honest to God, this says nothing about Intensive Care anywhere!"  
"That might be because you were in such a flap you only went up one floor from Reception."

"Shut up! I-"

"Summer," Hope sighed through her teeth, looking up from her copy of _Jane Eyre_ for the first time since they'd gotten out of the car. "We're all worried about her – by all I mean you too – but you seriously need to stop trying to be the parent. It's not your job and it's not fair on you."

"Right, thanks," Summer sighed, running her hand through her hair, only just realising that her shirt was sticking to her with sweat. "Now...where were the stairs again?"

* * *

Anne sighed, looking up once again from her computer at a man nearing his late fifties. His black hair was greying in what could be described as a pretty respectable pattern, and he was dressed for a night in a posh casino. "Can I help?"  
"There isn't someone called Evelyn Bonham-Carter here is there? She- she's my wife; I got a call about an hour ago, but I couldn't find the right hospital and-"  
"Right, right. Hey, you wouldn't happen to know the huge squad of kids who just came in here, would you?"  
"Would they fit the description of a brash eighteen-year-old, two teenage girls, one of whom was probably reading, and a boy with dark hair and glasses who swears too much?"  
"That would be them, yes."

"Great, then I'm their dad. Now, Evelyn Bonham-Carter, where is she?"  
"Can I have your name please?"  
"Matthew Bonham-Carter."  
"Relation to Ms Bonham-Carter?"

"I just said, I'm her husband and the father to her bloody kids! We share a surname, is it not blatantly obvious that we're bloody married? Jesus Christ!"

"Just had to make sure. And I will have you removed if you verbally assault me once again. Your son's already been at it, so the apple never falls far is all I can say," Anne snorted moodily. "She's floor four, west wing, intensive care nine, got that?"

"Yes, thanks," Matthew glowered, turning to go. "Oh, one more thing. How do I file a complaint about a member of staff?"

His thoughts marred by concern for his wife of thirty years, Matthew stalked off, hands in his pockets and anger written across his face. "Bloody NHS..."

* * *

"Mum?" David took a step into Evelyn's room, then reeled back in shock. It was his mother all right, but...

A sob caught in his throat. He took in the way she was lying, the pain etched on her face. Both of her arms were full of stitches, dressings or bandage stuck over various areas. Her face was a mess of tiny cuts and bruises, her jaw swollen and both eyes blackened from what looked to be a broken nose. Her left leg was in plaster to her thigh, and she had a line in her hand dripping blood and some sort of clear liquid into her. No. This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening, it could only be a nightmare...No...

"David," her face cracked into a broad smile, her arms open inviting an embrace. Shaking with silent sobs, not letting himself cry properly, he sank into her, smiling and crying at the same time, relieved to see his mother again but obviously upset about seeing her in the state she was in.

"Hi mum," Summer was speaking quietly, shocked as well but not letting it show in such a way as her younger brother. June and Hope were tailing her, neither of them saying anything. Evelyn's middle children had always been the quiet ones.

"Hello, darling," Evelyn looked up, though as she moved, a row of stitches caught David's threadbare cardigan and she breathed out sharply in pain.

"David, stop sucking up, you're hurting her!"

"Summer, I would much appreciate not being treated as if I was made of china, thank you very much. I'm fine, just a bit sore here and there," she sighed. "Where's your dad?"  
"Not a clue," Summer sighed, turning round to see Hope once again engrossed in her book and June nervously picking at her nail polish.

"Not a clue. He wasn't at home, but I called him and he said he was on his way," Hope looked up from her novel before lowering her head again.

"Well then..." Evelyn sighed, noticing her son's glasses misting up from tears. "God, David, I'm sorry you had to see me like this...it isn't fair..."  
"N-no," David stammered through a sob. "It's not your fault. Besides, you're my mum; I'd be a pretty cold bastard not to care about you because of a few cuts and scars." He sank into another hug, gentler on his mother's stitched-up arms this time. "I love you..."

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
